He Smells Like Trouble
by Heart Iconography
Summary: "He doesn't smell bad," Scott defended his friend. "He smells like trouble," Derek muttered.
1. Chapter 1

_Stiles. _

Derek Hale growled the name silently to himself. How was it that one scrawny teenager could manage to make him madder than a pack of Alpha werewolves? He had given him one instruction; and to make matters more frustrating that instruction had only one word: **STAY**.

Okay, on more than one occasion Derek had heard the rest of the pack joke about the boy's attention span. "Fidgety Stiles, off chasing butterflies." Or, "Stiles, did you forget your Adderall today?" But even Derek knew that a one word command wasn't beyond the kid. _Stay. _Sure, Derek could've expanded a little – _Stay. Just stay right where I'm leaving you – I'm going ALONE to check out that suspicious noise because out of the two of us, I'm much less likely to die if injured. _But Derek didn't believe everything needed to be spelled out. 'Stay' should've been enough.

So how was it that he was now driving this tin-can of a Jeep with a passed out, possibly bleeding out, seventeen year old? Because the boy had an insecurity complex about being a worthless human that drove him into having a hero complex that required a healing rate beyond Stiles' human capabilities. And Derek didn't have the patience to deal with any of it.

"You're a God damn idiot," Derek snarled to the unmoving frame in the back seat. "I told you to stay. How hard is that? There are literally cocker spaniels that are smarter than you."

Stiles groaned slightly, shuffled his limbs around a little, and was quiet again. Though Derek had been keeping a close listen on the boy's heartbeat to make sure he didn't die, hearing the slight movement in the back made him relax a bit. Of course, that didn't stop him from pushing the Jeep faster and faster until he finally reached his loft.

Having already called Scott on the drive there, he was not surprised to find the teen waiting anxiously outside – feeling relief that he had managed to drag Deaton along with him. Though Derek didn't want to admit it, the scent of blood had worried him and made him panicky the whole way home. Shrugging off Scott's help, Derek effortlessly lifted Stiles from the back and carried him inside the building.

While Deaton examined Stiles in the bedroom, Derek paced the kitchen, carding his fingers through his hair in frustration. Did the kid have a death wish? Would he have to start chaining him up with the rest of the werewolves every time there was a full moon? Why couldn't he just do what he was told? Did he not get how many people would be devastated if something killed him? … not that Derek would care – at least, not outside of how it would affect his pack. With that justification, he felt slightly better about his worrying over the unconscious boy in the next room.

"What happened?" Scott asked as he walked into the kitchen, cutting off Derek's internal monologue.

"The Alpha pack. I was following Ennis, and he was following someone else. I didn't know it was Stiles at the time; but then I smelled that familiar stench and…"

"He doesn't smell bad," Scott defended his friend.

"He smells like trouble," Derek muttered. "I went around them and found Stiles. Told him to stay while I checked it out. But you know Stiles. He heard the fighting and got the urge to throw himself into the middle of it for no reason."

"He just wanted to help," Scott said.

"And what a big help he was. Ennis took one swipe at him and I had to heft the kid up like a sack of potatoes and run. Seriously, tell me what is so hard to understand about the word stay – I know Stiles has the hardest time with it, but it does seem to be a bit of a pack trait, the more I think about it."

"Come on –" Scott argued, only to be cut off by Deaton's quiet, unsettling presence.

"Stiles will be fine. I cleaned the wound. Bandaged him. Gave him a little something for the pain – he'll probably be sorry he slept through it, I have a feeling he would've enjoyed it," Deacon said a soft chuckle.

"How serious were the wounds?" Derek asked, all business, arms crossed over his chest.

"Not bad at all – the boy's just a bit of a bleeder, it seems. The cuts were superficial, really. For the size of Ennis you either got very lucky, or he purposefully took a very delicate swipe at him."

"Why would he do that?" Scott asked, confused.

"Could be he knew of the boy's standing in the pack," Deaton offered, looking at Derek.

"What do you mean? He's not a werewolf. Heck, he's not even a hunter," Scott said.

"Just something to think about," Deaton said with a mysterious smile.

Derek fixed the man with a hard stare. He didn't know what Deaton was implying, but he was smart enough to know that it involved him. Of course, the emissary didn't whither under his gaze like most would, but instead seemed to grow more amused by the situation.

"Stiles shouldn't be moved tonight," Deaton told the pair. "Let him sleep it off and make sure he uses the ointment I've left for him, as well as the fresh bandages. I need to be going."

Scott quietly said goodbye to his boss and showed him to the door. Derek grit is teeth, kissing his bed goodbye tonight. Not that he was a huge fan of sleeping, but he did occasionally like to use his own bed. And after today he could certainly use some sleep.

"Should we call his father?" Derek asked when Scott came back in.

"It's Friday night. Stiles almost always crashes at my place. I'll just text him and let him know he's staying the night. Stiles almost always forgets his phone charger anyways."

"Are you planning on staying, too?" Derek asked.

"Can't, man. My mom has me grounded until I'm 90 or my grades go up, whichever comes first," Scott said.

"Then what are you doing here?" Derek asked.

"I'm not here," Scott said with an easy smile, shrugging his jacket back on. "Obviously."

"Obviously," muttered Derek to himself.

[]

Derek pulled up a chair next to the bed and kept vigil; he assured himself that this was not creepy, because there was no way he would want to sleep in a bed that someone had died in. He was not concerned. He was no worried. He did not care. Of course, this was much more difficult to convince himself of when he had to dig out his claws from the cushioned arm of the chair every time the boy snuffled in his sleep.

After about three hours of relative silence, Stiles opened his foggy eyes, and looked around the room in confusion. His gaze landed on Derek and he groaned as if in agony.

"Am I dead?" Stiles croaked. "Is this hell?"

"Babysitting you feels a lot like hell to me," Derek shot back. "But no, you're not dead; though, that's through no lack of trying on your part."

"My fault?" Stiles asked in a small, obviously medicated voice.

"Well, if anyone to blame it's Ennis. But you didn't help. Why didn't you just stay like I told you to?" Derek asked frustrated.

"Heard fighting. Thought you were hurt," Stiles said with a frown.

"So the solution was to get yourself killed? Didn't know you cared so much," Derek said, comfortable teasing the boy because he knew chances of him remembering it the next day were slim to none.

"'Course I do, Sour Wolf," Stiles breathed out with a loopy smile and immediately fell back asleep.

It took Derek a second to realize he was holding his breath. Exhaling slowly, he tried to ignore the warm feeling in his gut at the obviously affectionate use of the boy's usual nickname for him. While the confusion settled in his brain, he leaned forward, reached his hand out as if to touch Stiles' cheek, and then drew it back.

"I care, too," he said to the sleeping form. "Even if I don't have a stupid nickname for you." 


	2. Chapter 2

It was seven in the morning when Derek, who hadn't slept yet, was making coffee in the kitchen and heard soft obscenities coming from the bedroom. Sighing and setting his cup aside he made the short trek to the door and opened it without knocking (it was his bedroom, after all); what he saw somehow managed to frustrate and anger him in equal measure – something Stiles had only ever been capable of.

"Please tell me you're not stupid enough to be trying to leave right now," Derek snapped.

"My dad –" Stiles started, not looking up from where he was trying to tie his shoes.

"Thinks you're at Scott's for the weekend. I know you're in pain, but your wounds are superficial – we had Deaton check them to be safe. Mostly you just need to rest. You won't be better by Monday, but you'll be better than this."

"So, let's get it over with," Stiles said with a big sigh, hobbling back to the bed and sitting down.

"What?" Derek asked.

"The big lecture. You know – Stiles, you're a human. You nearly got yourself killed. I gave you an order. I'm the Alpha, etc. etc."

"You seem to have it covered," Derek said. "Besides, unlike you, some of us haven't been sleeping for 12 hours."

"Well, if you want your bed back I can hang out on the couch. I don't think I'll be falling back to sleep anytime soon anyways," Stiles offered.

"That's fine. It smells like you now anyways. I'd have to wash the sheets," Derek complained.

"I don't stink," Stiles says, offended.

"I mean, it smells like your blood, idiot," Derek shot back. "And you do stink."

"Well, I'm sorry for trying to save your ass –"

"There wasn't a scratch on me! And even if there was, it would've been gone in a minute or two. Stiles, you know all of that. What is it that makes you want to throw yourself on top of grenades for people?"

"Sheer stupidity?" Stiles muttered.

"Wouldn't surprise me, except we both know you're not stupid," Derek relented. "I'm making some coffee. Do you want some?"

"Do you have sugar?" Stiles asked hopefully.

"Seriously?" Derek asked.

"And cream. Can't have coffee without cream," Stiles said grinning.

"I thought only girls took their coffee with cream and sugar?" Derek asked.

"And I thought wolves only drank out of streams and stuff?" Stiles replied. "Do you want to go drink out of a stream? Probably not. Because coffee tastes better, right? And to me, black coffee… man, it is one gnarly stream. Like, picture a stream with severed limbs floating in it. And the limbs are infected with a flesh eating disease, and –"

"Yes! Okay?! We have sugar and cream here!" Derek shouted to stop Stiles tirade.

"Wow, no need to get snippy."

Derek began to walk out, muttering to himself about how he should've left the boy to bleed out, that it would've been a public service, that he was clearly insane and didn't know when to shut up or stay put ever. And how had he even made it this long without getting the crap kicked out of him anyway, when Stiles stopped him by calling his name.

"Derek?"

"What, Stiles?" he said.

"You're going to spit in my coffee, aren't you?"

* * *

"So we've never really been alone for any extended period of time," Stiles said as Derek handed him the steaming hot cup of coffee – carrying the cream and sugar in his other hand. This meant his own coffee was still sitting in the kitchen untouched, but what can you do?

"Probably a reason for that," Derek said.

"Like you hate me," Stiles replied.

"Hate is a strong word. Annoy might be more accurate," Derek grumbled.

"You like me," Stiles said, his eyes lighting up. "That's Derek Hale for _I like you_ isn't it?"

Derek abruptly walked out, going to get his coffee. He ignored Stiles shouting after him that he wouldn't tell anyone how much Derek wanted to be his best friend. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed his cup and took a long sip before he returned to deal with the teenager.

"Hey, you came back," Stiles said. "Couldn't stay away from me, could you?"

"Stop whatever it is that you're doing; you're getting on my nerves," Derek growled at him.

"Okay, I'll go light on the teasing. Obviously you're new to it," Stiles said cheekily. "So what do you usually do during the days?"

"Research, mainly," Derek admitted. "I like to try to stay ahead of things."

"Hey!" Stiles protested. "Research is my field."

"Well, I don't use the computer if that makes you feel any better."

"It does, both for me and whatever computer you have."

"Ha-ha," Derek said flatly.

"No, really. You're whole Luddite, _books-are-the-beacon-of-knowledge-guiding-us-along-our-darkened-path_ thing is very in right now."

"I just like books more. They smell better," Derek admitted.

"What do books smell like?" Stiles asked. "Glue and paper?"

"Well, yes. But also time. Age. They smell like whoever has touched them. Whatever houses they've been in – they smell almost like people. Computers… I don't know. They smell like a really bad cross of a hospital and a factory. Also Cheeto dust, if it's yours."

"Flaming Cheeto dust," Stiles corrected.

"Because that's important," Derek snapped.

"Yeah, it is important – and the fact that you don't think that it is makes me feel like you have never eaten a Cheeto in your life."

"I swear talking to you must be like what Lydia feels like when she comes to and has no idea where she is or how she got there," Derek said as he sat back down in the chair. "I really have a new found respect for her now."

"Trust me, that's one closed door that ain't opening any time soon," Stiles said with a snort.

"I'll find a way to get over it," Derek countered flatly.

"So, do you want to break these books out that you've got stashed away?" Stiles asked. "I promise I won't judge you if you start sniffing them."

"I don't need to sniff them to smell them – werewolf senses, remember?"

"Right."

"Do you want me to bring the laptop?" Derek asked, uncomfortably. "It's kind of old, but it still works."

"Cool, a relic! Bring me the dinosaur," Stiles said excitedly.

Once Derek was settled with his book, and Stiles with the laptop booting up, a comfortable silence fell over the pair. Derek was a couple of pages in when suddenly he heard Stiles' sharp intake of breath. His eyes whipped up to look at the teen, making sure he was okay.

"What?" Derek asked anxiously.

"_Internet. Explorer._" Stiles hissed.

"It works fine," Derek said defensively.

"INTERNET. EXPLORER!" Stiles said, then turned to the laptop and began talking directly to it. "Don't worry, baby. The bad man is gone. We'll get you fixed up in no time. It's all over now."


	3. Chapter 3

It was only about an hour before Stiles looked over to the Alpha, mouth opened to ask a question, and found Derek asleep in the chair; passed out hard. His neck in what had to be the most uncomfortable position Stiles had ever seen; and Stiles had fallen asleep in many uncomfortable positions – in fact, his face knew every inch of his keyboard intimately.

Stiles felt his palms itching for his cellphone. He wanted to text Scott and ask him if Derek had really been up all night with him. Stiles was sure his best friend had been texting Derek every couple of hours, making sure he hadn't shuffled off this mortal coil; even if his injuries would be later described as kitten scratches by the rest of the pack.

The room was dark still, despite the early hour, and Stiles couldn't help but feel his gaze being drawn to the older male. Did werewolves even get cold? Stiles debated getting up and covering him with a blanket but quickly discarded the idea; not only would he be embarrassed as all hell if Derek woke up in the middle of the process, but he would probably get an earful from him if he realized Stiles had gotten up for more than a bathroom break – he could toss the blanket across the room at Derek, but somehow that just didn't seem as nice. Definitely funnier, but not as nice.

Stiles thought back on the night before – the one that had landed him in Derek Hales' bed. Just another Friday night. Stiles had been walking back to his car from the video store – and why did he even rent videos anyway? He was a uTorrent man; maybe he had been born with the nostalgia gene – who knows? And suddenly Derek was in front of him, his blue-gray eyes signaling danger.

Derek had told him stay, and God damn it, he had really tried to follow the order. A big part of him had even wanted to follow the order – after all, he knew realistically that if shit went down, he'd be the least likely to get back up. But when he had heard the sound of someone not too far off growling and being slammed into a wall, his body had moved of its own volition; Stiles blamed his ADD. His brain just couldn't concentrate on one word long enough for it to really matter.

And like an idiot, he had thrown himself into a battle that had no use for him at all. Though when did a battle really have any use for him? Especially now that Lydia, who was definitely smarter than him, was also a supernatural being. Not to mention Derek was encroaching on his territory – and shouldn't a wolf know better? After being sliced up by Ennis, Stiles can't remember much - maybe a sentence here or there, but it was hard to deduce with any certainty if they were real or imagined. (All he knows is that they were all spoken in Derek's voice.)

Focused on the sleeping man's face, Stiles couldn't help but to note how much younger Derek looked. As if he was just a regular guy – not a wolf – and certainly not a wolf who had been through quite as much as he had. Stiles had noticed Derek before all of this (hadn't everyone noticed Derek Hale? A part of Stiles still couldn't get over Scott's obliviousness); he remembered the confident aura that surrounded Derek, though there was still a sadness to the older boy that Stiles detected, life had undoubtedly been much kinder to him then.

And no, Stiles didn't want to think about why Derek always seemed to linger his periphery – even then, when werewolves were for Twilight fans and Lydia was the only person who had the potential to break his heart. But to Stile there had always been a connection between him and Derek; something that let Stiles know he was safe with him. Sure, Derek had tossed him around a bit, but Stiles never hesitated to mouth off to him – and while it would surprise most people to know, Stiles was capable of shutting up when it suited him.

Sour Wolf, though generally unimpressed with most of the things Stiles had to say, never really seemed to want him to shut up all that much. Stiles couldn't help but smile slightly to himself. Derek was a puzzle he could never figure out; a puzzle Stiles strangely had the patience and focus for. And maybe the more he learned about the Alpha the less sense he made, but someday Stiles was sure it would all click into place. He just had to keep gathering his data, filing it away.

Stiles took the pain medication Deaton had left by the bedside table and settled down into the bed, the old laptop humming the only lullaby he had known since his mother passed. It wasn't long before the crispness of consciousness started to blur into the delicious in-between. Stiles pressed his face into the pillow that smelled so strongly of rain and fog and forest that he had to wonder if he was picking up some keen wolf-senses of his own. 

* * *

_Derek was in his bed. Derek was being touched. Derek did not know who was touching him. The body was harder than Kate's, didn't give in places where hers would have. The fingers were longer – knew what they were doing better. Derek had to bite down a growl when the hands ran down his abs, caressing the hair beneath his navel. _

_Suddenly there were lips pressing against his neck; full, twisted slightly – Derek could feel the smirk in them. There was a familiarity in this mouth that he couldn't place. The teeth grazed his collarbones – a tongue lavished his nipple. Derek found himself harder than he could remember – no one had ever taken such care with him before. The attention seemed to sink into his cold bones, warming him in a way that he was a stranger to. _

_Greedy, Derek tried to reach his hands out to grab the person. He wanted to conquer them. Throw them down. Give back some of the pleasure they had been giving him. To tease in the same manner he was being teased, but he couldn't move. Heard a distant rattle and realized he was chained. Chained, but not alarmed. He knew whoever he was reaching towards was all light and goodness. _

_He heard a tutting, deeper than he was used to, and suddenly that mouth was over his; pressing into him, tongue pushing past teeth, licking the roof of his mouth in a way that made even the most mundane parts of his body ache. Teeth split lip, tongue lapped blood. Pain (though playful) and comfort. Something Derek had spent so long looking for. _

_The mouth didn't stay as long as Derek would've liked; this time he could not stop the wolf inside him from growling his displeasure. The lips traveling down his chin and neck curled up at the sound as if amused. Then there was stillness; the weight of the person straddling him had not lifted, but the body was stone. _

_Suddenly Derek felt the warm wetness of that mouth around the head of his cock. He could feel his precum leaking onto the tongue, even in all the hot moistness of it all. Around him the mouth vibrated with approval and slipped down imperceptibly and back up again, sucking and lapping, licking as if he were a God damn lollipop. _

_Derek swore when it was his turn, he would hold whoever it was down, and force such pleasure on them that they wouldn't remember anyone before or after him. They would breathlessly insist they couldn't cum again, and he would work them until they were a quivering mass of wrong and fluid and release; and he would lap up every damn bit, so they better have their fun now. _

_Suddenly, all at once, his length was engulfed in the hot cavern of the mouth. Swallowed whole – a trick no one he had been with had ever been able to master. What was once teasing was now fast and hard and hot. A blowjob with intention. Hands cupping and lightly squeezing his balls. Mouth sucking, tongue swiping and swirling in patterns he could not anticipate. And the only thing Derek loved more than this blowjob was how much more the person giving it seemed to enjoy it; their little sounds of approval and movements soaked with enthusiasm sent Derek over the edge faster than his first time. _

_After the mouth had swallowed every drop of him, licked him clean, and left him lying exhausted against his stomach, the face finally came into view – whatever had been blinding him cleared and he saw familiar brown eyes. Blinking away the post-orgasm bliss, he was shocked to find the seventeen year old Stiles grinning up at him, as if there was nothing strange about him being naked on his lap, or having the most sinful mouth Derek had ever encountered. _

"_I was wrong to call you Sour Wolf, you know," Stiles said, licking his bottom lip. "You're actually pretty sweet." _


	4. Chapter 4

When Derek woke up he was sweating, panting, and straining against the fly of his jeans. Running a hand over his face, he sent a silent thanks to God that Stiles was curled up asleep, and not looking at him questioningly – smirking a little smirk with that mouth… No! Derek shook his head trying to clear his thoughts. That dream had been bad. He was _scarred_; this was not something he would look back on when he was alone later, or in the shower… Derek couldn't help the snarl that ripped from his throat in frustration.

"Do you mind?" asked a small, sleepy voice from the bed. "I don't think Florence Nightingale growled at her patients."

"Well, maybe she never tended to anyone as annoying as you," Derek shot back, quickly getting up to stand behind the chair, in case Stiles were to look over.

"How can a sleeping person be annoying?" Stiles said, burying his face into the pillow.

"… you were snoring," Derek said, almost triumphantly.

"Nice try, I don't snore. Sleep-talk, sometimes, but not snoring. Never snoring," Stiles said, turning over to look at Derek with one eye still shut.

"You sleep-talk?" asked Derek.

"So I've been told. Of course, I also sleep-walk, and am generally what is referred to as a _troubled sleeper_; so the fact I also talk in my sleep doesn't really inspire the same shock in me as it does in you."

"I'm just surprised that I even thought sleep could shut you up," Derek said. "Do you want something to drink? Something to eat?"

"Are you going to poison me?" Stiles asked.

"I'm the Alpha of a werewolf pack. If I was going to kill you, it wouldn't be with poison."

"Right. Claws and all that," Stiles said.

"And all that. Besides, I was thinking more along the lines of ordering pizza or Chinese food or something. Do you have a preference?"

"Oh God, pizza. I try so hard to keep my dad away from pizza that I hardly get to have it anymore. Pizza. Yes. A thousand times, yes!"

"Anything you won't eat on a pizza?" Derek asked.

"I'm seventeen year old male. I've barely learned to restrain myself from eating the cardboard box."

"Good point," Derek said. "Meat lover's sound alright?"

"You trying to tell me something, big guy?" Stiles said, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"Shut up, Stiles, or I'll order vegetarian," Derek groused, hoping Stiles didn't notice the blush creeping up his neck.

"Shutting up," Stiles said.

Derek left the room and went into the kitchen. Turning on the tap he stuck his head under the spray of cold water, hoping he could wash away all the strangeness that had been cast over today. What was wrong with his brain? It was weird enough that he had been dreaming a human dream at all; most of his dreams he was in his wolf form, running in the forest, howling at the moon – that kind of thing. So for his first dream in a long time to be of Stiles… and what Stiles had been doing… was unbelievably strange.

As he was ordering the pizza he heard Stiles getting up, using the washroom – his hearing picked up on the sink tap being turned, water being splashed. He was sitting at the table, trying to put as much distance between them as possible when he heard his name being called tentatively. Immediately Derek's heartbeat increased, the hair on his neck rose in response to potential danger – to Stiles being in danger.

"Derek?" Stiles was in the middle of calling when Derek showed up flushed, and somewhat breathlessly for the short trek.

"What is it? Are you alright?" Derek said in rapid fire.

"Woah, slow down, buddy," Stiles said. "Nothing is about to gut me, if that's what you mean. It's just that Deaton told me I'd need to disinfect and change these bandages and given the location of the wounds… it's just kind of tricky. Do you think you could help?"

"Uh," Derek's brain seemed to short-circuit. "Are you… are you sure you wouldn't rather I get Scott to do it?"

"Listen, I know looking at me shirtless won't be a picnic for you – just like being shirtless won't be a picnic for me – but it needs to be done and Scott is probably following Allison around or something. Listen, if it helps I could probably manage to do an okay job disinfecting them myself…"

"Don't be stupid," Derek said. "Those wounds need to be cleaned thoroughly so infection doesn't start in, and as far as I know you don't have freaky double-jointed arms."

"I definitely don't," Stiles said. "I just… you seemed uncomfortable, that's all."

"I'm not," Derek said defensively. "I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable."

"As comfortable as a guy can be with wounds that need to be disinfected," Stiles joked.

"I'll get the stuff and you get comfortable. We should be able to get this done before the pizza gets here, okay?"

"Yeah, totally," Stiles agreed.

Derek went into the bathroom to gather the bundle of things left by Deaton. It was obvious Stiles had been trying to do it all on his own, as was evident from the mess left. Derek rolled his eyes. Giving himself a pep talk that start with _Get it together, Hale_ and ended _with he's just a kid_, Derek finally felt ready to go back into the bedroom.

Stiles was on his bed. Shirtless. Not quite as skinny as Derek had thought him, but actually kind of lanky. Wiry. He could see the muscles under the skin – compact and pale, with moles and dusting of freckles. Stiles cleared his throat, looking at Derek as if he had grown a third head.

"Do you need me to tell you where it hurts, Doc, or…?" Stiles said jokingly.

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek said.

Sitting next to him he put a large amount of the ointment on a cloth and began to gently wipe it over the cuts. He wondered how the wounds could look both superficial and deep at the same time. Stiles flinched and sucked in his breath, and Derek lightened his touch. Working in silence, Derek quickly finished disinfecting the wounds, glad to stop causing Stiles any additional discomfort.

"Arms up," Derek instructed.

Stiles lifted his arms without comment, letting Derek place a bandage over the wound, and then wrap around his chest with gauze. Maybe it was overkill, but it would help keep the bandage in place so it wouldn't tug or pull at the drying scabs.

"Done," Derek claimed.

"Thanks," said Stiles with a smile. "You have good hands – uh, I mean, steady hands. You know, you have a gentle touch in a very manly way – I just mean you're good at this, is all!"

"Well, thank you," Derek said with a small smile. "I used to help my mom a lot tend to people with injuries. I guess it stuck. Plus, I definitely get a lot of practice."

"I guess you would," Stiles said.

"You're a good patient, too," said Derek. "I was expecting a lot more whining."

"Stilinski men aren't wimps," Stiles said with a proud raise of his chin.

"No," Derek said. "They aren't. I'm starting to get that."


	5. Chapter 5

Scott came a few hours after the pizza. He was holding Stiles' fully charged phone with a big smile. Almost groaning in relief, Stiles made grabby hands towards it until Scott released the cell; and no, Stiles wasn't ashamed to admit that the first couple of sentences his best friend said blurred in comparison to having his phone back.

"So, how has it been?" Scott asked again, a bit louder.

"Oh, fine. Derek's been Derek… if not quite so grouchy by like, a small, small fraction," Stiles said.

"Yeah, man," Scott said. "He was actually pretty worried about you. You should've seen him carry you inside _bridal style_."

"Oh God, my pride," Stiles whined. "Don't tell me that. Besides, I was bleeding and injured – did you want him to piggyback me inside?"

"No – that wouldn't have been near as funny," Scott said with a joking smile.

"Yeah, har har. Stiles life is a big joke," Stiles groused without much venom. "What are you up to today anyways?"

"You're looking at it. I was coming over anyways, but when Derek called cause he had to go out, I figured I'd make my visit an epic."

"Right. He was going to see Peter the Creepy," Stiles said.

"Wait – how did you know that?" Scott asked, brow furrowing.

"Just because you guys have super hearing doesn't mean the rest of us puny humans are deaf. He was on the phone. I overheard."

"You _eavesdropped_," Scott said amused.

"Potato, po-tot-oh," Stiles countered dismissively. "So how do you intend on entertaining me while I'm here on my death bed?"

"Not funny," Scott said. "And I brought my x-box. I figured I'd just move the TV in here – you know, save you the trip."

"You are like, my personal savior," Stiles said. "All I've had is the laptop, and it wheezes worse than a ninety year old."

"What?" Scott asked. "Derek has a computer."

"I'd hardly call it a computer. It's more like a really smart typewriter," Stiles said.

Scott laughed and then excused himself to go fetch the TV. The two boys fell into an easy pattern of jokes; the kind of pattern only best friends who were closer to siblings could have. Stiles couldn't help but to feel his mood, which he hadn't even felt was too low given the circumstances, perk right up. Scott tossed him the controllers while he messed around with the wires.

"This is more confusing than I thought it would be," Scott admitted, frustration colouring his voice.

"Do you want me to come look at it?" Stiles offered.

"Nah, man, I got it," Scott said. "Just hoping I don't electrocute myself."

"Yeah, it'd be weird to share my sick bed with you," Stiles said, pulling up the comforter around him.

"Definitely," Scott agreed. "I love you and all, but you turn into an octopus – just, all arms, dude."

"That happened once!" Stiles said, face heating at the memory.

"And once was more than enough," Scott said. "Now are you ready to play?"

"Oh, I'm ready – ready to conquer."

"Oooh, someone is troubled," said Peter with amusement colouring his voice. "Though it's so hard to tell with the natural set of your face – I think it's the sad eyebrows."

"I don't have sad eyebrows," Derek growled. "What are we going to do about the Alpha pack?"

"Give me some credit, nephew. I'm handling it."

"Excuse me if your promise of handling things doesn't exactly set my mind at ease," Derek said.

"Come now, tell me about what's bothering you – and don't say nothing. I can smell it all over you… like orange soda and sarcasm. I take it something happened with the mouthy one?"

"Stiles," Derek supplied.

"Yes, _Stiles_," Peter said easily. "What a strange name."

"He's staying at my place until he recovers from his injuries, you know that, Peter," Derek bit.

"Of course," said Peter. "But that's not what I'm sensing on you."

"You can't sense shit," replied Derek.

"Actually, I can sense you trying to _bullshit_ me," Peter grinned. "There's something off about you."

"I just… I had a human dream," Derek admitted.

"As Alpha?" Peter asked rhetorically. "That is quite strange… What was the nature of this dream?"

"It was just a dream," Derek said awkwardly.

"Oh, gotcha," Peter laughed. "I've heard about that happening."

"I think everyone has heard about that happening," Derek said, rolling his eyes.

"No. When an Alpha has a dream with… ah… questionable content," Peter supplied carefully, "there's a name for it – a reason for it."

"What are you talking about?" Derek said.

"You mean you really don't know?"

"Know what?" Derek asked.

"Well, there's one way to be sure," said Derek. "Do you know this person? Have a relationship with them? A bond, maybe?"

Derek was silent. He thought of the first time he met Stiles – and he thought of knowing Stiles now – and everything in between. How much had changed, for both of them. How where once there was malice in their words to each other, there was now joking.

"I'll take your lack of response as a yes," said Peter. "Look at my nephew, all grown up."

"I'm not going to ask you what you're talking about again, Peter," snarled Derek, his hands clenching into fists.

"It's a mating dream, Derek. Did your mother never tell you about mating dreams?"

"You mean sex dreams?" Derek said. "She didn't really have to."

"No… when you're an Alpha and you have a mating dream… it's prophetic. Some sort of magic, Derek. It helps you realize your mate."

"My mate?" Derek asked, heart seeming to have stopped. "Like… my _MATE_?"

"Yes," Peter said. "So, who was the lucky girl?"

"You're… you're lying," Derek tried to convince himself. "You're lying like you always do, to get some sort of sadistic laugh once I've left and gotten myself all worked up about this."

"While that does sound like my version of chaos," Peter admitted, "I'm afraid it's the truth – why? Is the girl ugly? You don't have to worry about it. Once the mating process is complete no one would be able to convince you she wasn't hotter than Scarlett Johansson."

"Seriously messed up joke," Derek said, ignoring him and the sinking feeling in his stomach. "You're mentally ill."

"Probably."


	6. Chapter 6

_**AN: I couldn't sleep and since there was no actual Sterek scenes in my last chapter, I figured I'd make up for it right away. Hope you enjoy! **_

* * *

"What?" Stiles demanded on a huffy breath.

Scott had left shortly after Derek had arrived. It had been several hours, and many, many games of Angry Birds – because to Stiles his birds would always be angry, and never flappy. But Derek hadn't spoken, and all of his glances seemed troubled. He refused to sit down as he had before but instead popped his head in every half hour or so to check on Stiles.

"What do you mean?" Derek asked.

"You've clearly got a bug up your ass about something – you may as well tell me. Not like I have anywhere to be," Stiles said.

"Nothing is bothering me, Stiles," Derek responded, walking in, pacing slightly.

"You keep looking at me like…"

"Like what?" Derek shot back, his voice edgy and hard.

"Like I'm possessed or something!" Stiles shouted. "Did Peter say something? Is something wrong?"

"It's just Alpha stuff," Derek said.

"Oh. So human Stiles wouldn't understand it."

With a heavy sigh Derek sat in the chair, so the back was against his chest, and stared at Stiles. He seemed to debate what to say, his mouth opening, then shutting in a way that would've been comical in any other circumstance. Stiles waited.

"I wish you wouldn't say that," Derek settled on.

"Say what?"

"Human – you say it like it's a flaw or like you're less than us because you're not supernatural. Wolves – well, the good wolves anyway – they struggle so hard to hold onto what you have: humanity. It's our human side that's strong; that pulls us back from being monsters, Stiles. And that's what you are. Pure humanity. Every bit of you. And that's nothing to be ashamed of."

"That was sort of profoundly kind, big guy," Stiles said softly.

"Yeah, well I didn't sleep very well," Derek brushed off. "I promise there is nothing wrong with the pack. Nothing for anyone to worry about. This… well, it's just about me."

"Why wouldn't that worry me?" Stiles asked, looking genuinely confused.

"I don't need anyone to worry about me, Stiles."

"And I don't need Fluffernutter sandwiches, but it's nice sometimes," the teenager said with a wry smile.

"I don't know what that is and I don't want to know what that is."

"You worry about us all the time Derek. I mean, you keep it on the DL pretty well, but we've all seen it. Even I've seen it, and it's pretty obvious I'm your least favorite. Of course we're going to worry about you, too. Hell, how many shots have you taken for all of us?"

"It's my job, Stiles."

"Tell yourself whatever you want, but I think there's a softer Hale in there somewhere," the boy said.

"Don't think just because you're injured I won't slam your head into something," Derek groused, getting up and walking over to the window.

"Cause that'd make a lot of sense," Stiles said. "Go to all the trouble of making sure I don't get an infection and I die from blunt force trauma."

"You're not my least favorite," Derek admitted.

"Ha!" Stiles exclaimed. "So who is?"

"It's not as if I keep a tally, Stiles," Derek rolled his eyes.

"No – no, no! Let me guess!"

"God, forgot I said it!"

"It's Allison, isn't it?" Stiles guessed.

"Why would I dislike Allison?" Derek asked.

"Why would you like me?" Stiles questioned rhetorically. "It's not like you broadcast your thoughts; besides, she is an Argent."

"I never said I liked you. I just said you weren't my least favorite."

"Be still my beating heart."

* * *

_His kitchen was steamy. The red strainer in the sink was draining tortellini – not his favorite, but then again, this wasn't for him. Derek watched the steam rise and curl, dancing phantom ballets that put him in the mind something darker, more exotic._

_Suddenly he felt two arms around his waist. A face pressed in between his shoulders – he could feel the smile through the fabric of his shirt. The fingers danced their way under the hem of worn cotton, tracing hipbones and making his stomach clench in comfort and desire – a strange combination only one person could inspire._

_"Stiles," he sighed softly, leaning back into the touch._

_"You're making me dinner, huh?" Stiles asked._

_"You gotta eat, don't you?"_

_"Pretend all you want, but you know you love to spoil me."_

_"Well, at least if I spoil you there's an excuse for you being such a brat."_

_"I am not a brat – I'm endearingly difficult," Stiles defended._

_Derek turned around to face him. Stiles was smiling at him brighter and truer than he could remember ever seeing. He was wearing dark jeans, and a shirt that hung in such a way as to suggest it wasn't actually the younger man's but his own. The thought hit him somewhere deep in the gut._

_Reaching his hands out he cupped the face In front of him, caressing the smooth, pale cheek as if it was the first time he had ever been allowed to. When Stiles' eyes slipped shut, Derek fought the urge to count each long lash. There was something about the teenager that made him not so ashamed of his gentleness, his softness._

_Derek leaned forward, dragging his lips up along the long column of Stiles' neck. The boy's breath was hot and fluttery against his face, as if even the smallest touch was too much. Pink lips open, trembling. Derek's name a broken sound bite playing again, stuttering and stopping in strange intervals._

_"You kill me, you know that?" Derek asked, pressing his forehead against his lovers'._

_"And you, walking around all those months, in that leather jacket – that whole, accidentally hot thing – the whole, too grumpy to care I could be a model thing… what do you think that did to me?"_

_"I couldn't be a model," Derek huffed out on a surprised laugh._

_"Oh, shut up, you can't be this beautiful and modest, too," Stiles complained jokingly. "Now take off your clothes."_

_"I'm not sure that's regulation for a proper kitchen," Derek said._

_"You weren't complaining yesterday on the table," Stiles said, nibbling on Derek's earlobe, "or last week on the counters… or the floor…. or that time against the fridge…"_


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: You sweet, beautiful people! All the love this story has been getting has been making my day. I'm just so glad you all like it as much as you do. Now, enough of the crazy fanfic author and onto the boys!  
**_

* * *

When Derek woke it was with a start; his whole body jerking up off the couch, trying to get as much air as it could all at once, like he had been drowning. While he was rubbing a hand over his tired face, he heard the soft, hesitant padding of socked feet over hardwood floors. When he looked up, Stiles was staring at him owlishly.

"Bad dream?" Stiles asked quietly.

"Not in the strictest sense of the word," Derek muttered.

"Didn't sound good," Stiles said, sitting on the open end of the couch.

"Just took me by surprise that's all," Derek replied.

"Yeah – since the things nightmares are usually made of turned out to be real, my brain has gotten creative in the dream department."

"You have nightmares?" Derek asked, concern colouring his voice before he could pull it back.

"Not in the strictest sense of the word," Stiles said with a tight smile.

"Tell me," Derek couldn't stop himself from demanding. "I mean – you might feel better if you told me."

"And you might feel better if you opened up just a smidge and let someone see what's on the inside, big guy," Stiles said, getting up and patting Derek on the shoulder. "Get some sleep; you still look tired."

Derek didn't stop Stiles from walking away into the bedroom. He wanted to call him back – to talk to him. To have the kind of conversation that usually made him put up his stoic walls. But how could he tell Stiles that he had been dreaming about him? That the dreams were strange, but almost… beautiful – and he didn't know what they meant. And a part of him didn't want to know. Wanted to shove it into the back of his mind never to be thought about again. So he did exactly what he was good at, and he said nothing.

* * *

The dude drove Stiles nuts. Absolutely, 100%, certifiably nuts.

He finds him, obviously surfacing from some sort of night vision of hell, and Derek won't even admit it was a nightmare. Stiles dug his nails into his palms, feeling stupid for trying to connect with him – he thought if he had opened up about his own dreams, maybe Derek would realize he had a friend sitting right next to him, willing to listen – willing to help.

But God forbid someone try to help the Alpha.

Grabbing his phone Stiles debated momentarily what he was about to do – it was five in the morning. It could wait. Probably should wait. But his fingers were itching with the urge to get the words inside of his brain out. Giving in, he typed out a quick message to Scott and sent it.

**Stiles: **_Your Alpha sucks. Like, seriously, I try to be a decent person to him and he just totally shuts me down. What gives with this dude? Is it something in the Hale gene? So glad I'm going home tomorrow._

Setting his phone down on the pillow next to him, Stiles busied himself with staring at the ceiling, imagining that the shadows were shapes. Fifteen minutes passed with no reply. Then twenty. After a half hour had passed, he grabbed his phone right as it vibrated.

**Scott: **_Don't let Derek get to you. That's just the way he is, Stiles. We all know he's not exactly the touchy-feely type, and not even you (with all your therapy and Wikipedia pages) can fix that._

**Stiles: **_I can almost hear how sarcastically you said Wikipedia and I don't appreciate it at all. Wikipedia is a reliable source of information! We've had this discussion before._

**Scott: **_Shut up, Stiles. It's five-thirty in the morning and my super hearing won't let me not hear the phone and obviously turning it off isn't really an option. So unless Derek is about to kill you, we can talk about it later._

**Stiles: **_Did you know people can get so annoyed at broody, tight-lipped Alphas that they actually die? I read it on Wikipedia, man._

**Scott: **_GOODBYE STILES._

"Some friend you are," Stiles said to the screen of his phone, without any particular malice.

* * *

Knowing that Stiles was able to get up and move around without an excruciating amount of discomfort, Derek deemed it okay to leave him alone in the loft for a little while. Grabbing his leather jacket and keys he made his way to his car, cranked the radio to drown out his thoughts, and drove straight to Peter's.

He wasn't sure if he believed Peter about the dreams, but he was the only one who knew of them in even the vaguest sense – and maybe he would know how to make them stop. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. He never thought he would long for the days when he dreamed of running long and hard through the forest, waking up almost more exhausted than when he went to sleep.

"Peter," Derek called, pounding on the door. "Open up!"

"Hold on," Peter's voice called from inside the apartment.

Rolling his eyes, he knocked again, just out of spite. It was nine in the morning, and Peter was an early riser. There was no reason for him to be taking this long to answer his damn door.

"What can I do for you, dear nephew?" he asked.

Derek didn't comment and instead pushed his way inside. He heard Peter sigh and mumble something about _even though we are beasts doesn't mean we have to have the manners of beasts. _Derek bit back a snarl – if he wanted Peter's help, it would be easier if his head was still attached to his body.

Besides, he could always behead him later.

"What you said about the mating dreams – you were messing with me, right?" Derek asked, hoping to God that Peter would come out and admit it.

"No," Peter said. "It wouldn't be nearly as amusing for me if I was making it up – don't you get that?"

Derek slammed Peter into the wall behind him; teeth bared, wolf howling inside of him, ready to destroy. Peter held his hands up with a shit-eating grin, but that was the closest to an apology as the man had ever gotten. Derek let him go and took a step back.

"I don't know why this bothers you so much," Peter said. "Most wolves desire a mate. Someone to share their life with."

"Not me."

"That's right. Derek Hale: The Lone Wolf," Peter said. "You might want to consider that as a book title if you ever decide to get autobiographical."

Derek clenched his jaw so hard the bone popped loudly. He wondered briefly if he could crack his teeth with the force he was using the keep his mouth shut. Sighing, he made himself relax slightly, knowing this would go better if he didn't fly of the handlebars.

"Okay. How do I make it stop?" Derek asked.

"Make what stop? The mating process?" Peter asked.

"The what?"

"The mating process," Peter said slowly, as if Derek was in fact as stupid as he thought him to be. "The process has started – I can smell it all over you."

"What?"

"You're getting very redundant. The dreams weren't the start of this. You had already let this person into your heart, at least a little. The dreams are meant to guide you – to solidify what part of you already knows."

"Well, how do I unknow it?" Derek growled, frustrated.

"I supposed you could cut the person out of your life completely. Never see them again. Never talk to them again. It wouldn't stop the process… just kind of freeze it in place. You'd be miserable. Well, more miserable, I guess."

"And that would do it?" Derek asked. "Nothing would go beyond where it is now?"

"It's not exactly a science, Derek, but to the best of my knowledge, yes."

"Thank you, for once, for being actually somewhat useful."

"And thank you, for that almost compliment. I'll use it to keep me warm come the long nights," Peter said, showing his nephew out of his apartment.


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: As always, thanks for the reviews everyone! I've went back to edit some of the issues with previous chapters (no real changes to the story itself, just my mixed tenses and typos - that kind of stuff). Hope you all enjoy this angsty chapter. **_

* * *

Derek hadn't expected to find Stiles crouched behind the television, holding the wires between his hands. The drive home had been full with questions Derek couldn't find the answer for; conversations started in his head, abandoned, and then started again. He could feel a painful pressure building behind his eyes that made him want to snarl at everyone and everything.

"What are you _doing?_" he almost hissed at Stiles.

"Easy, Sourwolf," Stiles said with a laugh. "Scott hooked your television back up wrong. I'm just fixing it."

"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked annoyed.

"Because I'm not an invalid," Stiles said while he hooked the wires back up.

"The whole reason you're here is because you're an invalid," Derek said, rubbing his fingers into his temples in a weary manner.

"Believe me, I got the memo this wasn't a sleepover."

Derek left him in the living room and went to take some Advil; without reading the label he tossed three back and hoped it would make any difference. He needed to figure out what to do about Stiles. If Peter was right, then every second he spent around the boy would only make things worse.

In the other room Derek could hear the television start back up; from the laugh track he could only assume the teenager was watching some sort of sitcom. He reminded himself that Stiles was leaving tomorrow, and he could deal with it then. Maybe talk to the pack – make the loft a wolf-only zone. Something. He'd think of something. But for tonight, he just needed to let it go.

"Derek?" Stiles called.

It was as if strings were attached to his body – the boy hollered, and he came. He walked quickly into the living room to find Stiles sprawled out on the couch, remote in hand, grinning over the back of the cushions at him. Unbidden a small smile echoed on his face for a second before he could call it back.

"What?" Derek asked.

"Do you want to watch some bad TV with me?" Stiles asked. "I've been alone all day. I need some almost human contact. I'm going stir-crazy."

"Does it specifically have to be bad TV?" Derek asked, sitting down on the couch.

"Yes," Stiles said without explanation.

The two sat in companiable silence under the fluorescent glow of the television. Outside it was closing in on seven p.m. and the sun was throwing its orange glow through the windows. Derek had to tell himself not to look at Stiles – a small, treacherous part of him wondered how his brown eyes would look in this light; wondered how his pale skin would glow.

The words Peter said echoed in his head. The mating process would be frozen. Not stopped. Not over. Just paused. And he would always wonder about Stiles' eyes and skin now. He would always want to see him with sun setting around him. The thought made him dig his nails into his palms. Could he let go of Stiles forever? Never see him again? It was what was best for the teenager, he knew; it was obvious he shouldn't have ever been dragged into this mess, let alone to be mated to the Alpha – to be singled out as bait because he was cared for deeply. Stiles got enough of that already, didn't he?

Cutting off his thoughts, he felt Stiles shift in the couch, and suddenly the boy was curled up with his head almost on Derek's thigh; and in a few more seconds that's exactly where it ended up – as if Stiles thought it was a pillow. He nuzzled slightly into the denim and sighed contentedly, slipping into a peaceful sleep. Derek sat frozen, unsure of what to do or how to feel. He had never wanted to hold someone so close and push them so far away at once.

Derek sat so still he was sure he would've been mistaken for a statue if someone were to come in. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty, then an hour. Derek still couldn't decide if he should wake the boy. Tell him to go to bed. To do something, anything that would stop the uncomfortable ache in his chest.

_"No," _Stiles mumbled in his sleep. _"No. No! Stop!"_

Without his permission Derek's hand found its way into Stiles' hair. At the contact the troubled boy calmed. Derek continued to run his hand through the mop of brown, thinking how soft it was, and how good it felt. That if this were another place or another time… that this could've been just another night… that if he was not the Alpha and Stiles was not a seventeen year old slashed up by a werewolf… things could almost be nice… they could almost be perfect.

But Derek knew if his heart was capable of loving this boy, who trustingly pressed into him in his sleep, then the best thing for him would be to let him go. To let him find someone who would love him – someone normal. Someone human. Maybe even another girl with strawberry blond hair, if that was Stiles' type. But for now, Derek could pretend things were different – if only for a second.

That maybe he was a cop or a mechanic or something – and that Stiles was going to college, soaking all the knowledge up into that big brain that he could. And when Derek came home, Stiles was up to his eyeballs in research – except it was research for his engineering course. They sat down to watch some bad TV, because it _had to be bad TV_, and Stiles had fallen asleep. Because Stiles always seemed to fall asleep when they watched TV. And Derek got to run his hands through his hair, and it wasn't weird or creepy, because maybe they loved each other a little bit. (Maybe they even loved each other a lot…)

But that wasn't reality, Derek thought, his hand stilling its movement. He was an Alpha of a werewolf pack. Stiles was a seventeen year old boy who didn't knowing the meaning of the word _stay._ And he would get hurt often and easily. Maybe even killed. And Derek couldn't stand destroying one more beautiful thing. One more innocent thing. And the world could do without a _Sourwolf,_ but the world needed more Stiles.


	9. Chapter 9

"Should I like – I don't know, man – leave him a _thank you _note or something?" Stiles worried.

The loft had been empty when he woke up and remained that way until Scott had come to take him home. He'd like to say that he didn't feel hurt by the Alpha's sudden disappearance, but that wouldn't be quite honest – and there was really no point in lying to himself.

"Nah," Scott said, guiding his stalling friend towards the door, "I'm sure he knows you appreciate it."

"Okay. It just seems rude," Stiles protested.

"And suddenly you're the pack's Emily Post?"

"Yeah – maybe – wait, who?" Stiles asked.

"She's just a really polite person. God, it doesn't matter. Obviously Lydia has never lectured you on etiquette," Scott groused pushing his friend out the door and down the hallway gently.

"Because I'm not an animal Scott. Only an animal would disregard _thank you _notes."

* * *

Derek had ran himself exhausted.

The sun felt good beating down on his face. He was sitting on a rock by a ledge that looked over the town. By now, Stiles would be gone. He absently wondered how long it would take for his scent to dissipate, like the teen had never been there at all, making Derek's life both easier and more difficult at once.

He had called a pack meeting later that night – wolves only. He wasn't sure how that was going to go over with the others. Derek knew he had no choice but to set a boundary, and the only way to do it without raising questions was to split the group between supernatural and non-supernatural.

Derek was sure the Argent girl would try to shoot him with arrows, and maybe Lydia would scream until his eardrums popped, and maybe Stiles would look at him with big, hurt eyes – but they couldn't heal the way the wolves could. And they shouldn't have gotten dragged into any of it to start with.

The quiet around him which had originally seemed peaceful, now rang ominous. Reeked of waiting. Impending doom. He wished time to move faster, and for time to move not at all. Derek ran a hand over his face and tried not to think about the sleeping boy he had left on his couch, the one who made every bone in his body ache to claim and protect him.

But he couldn't keep him, or want him, or _love him._

Stiles needed distance. He needed to focus on his school work. He needed to spend time with his father, and visit his mother's grave, and play video games with Scott. He needed to not always be bait, or kidnapped, or almost dying. He needed to go to college and get a good job and find someone who wasn't more dark than they were light.

* * *

"You're what?" Scott demanded.

"Listen, you guys knew this was bound to happen. People you care about are getting hurt, and them getting hurt is getting distracting. We need to be focused if we're going to take down this Alpha pack," Derek said calmly.

"Is this about Stiles?" Isaac asked quietly.

"Not solely, but what happened to him is a good example," Derek said firmly.

"He's fine," Scott protested.

"This time," Derek countered. "Stiles, Allison, and Lydia have all helped the pack immensely and this in no way discredits that – but they don't have our healing abilities. All it takes is one second and they're gone forever – you should know that by now. We should all know that by now."

The table was quiet. Scott's brows were furrowed and Isaac was resting his head against his hand – Boyd was silent and still as ever, and Erica was examining her nails. Scott's phone was buzzing but he ignored it, staring at Derek, as if willing him to say something more.

"I don't know why I need to be here for this," Erica complained. "Or Boyd for that matter. These aren't our friends."

"You don't have friends," Isaac countered.

"And you do?" Boyd shot at him.

"Never said that, did I?" Isaac said without venom.

"So really this pack meeting was a conversation you just needed to have with Scott," Erica pointed out.

"No!" Derek snarled. "This is a command from your Alpha. Wolf business is kept between wolves. No more of this loft being a halfway house. Things are dangerous. Things are deadly. And there is to be no more casual attitudes about it."

* * *

"He WHAT?" Stiles shouted at Scott.

"Please don't make me have this fight again," Scott said weary. "I just had the exact same one with Lydia and Allison."

"So what? We're suddenly not good enough for your pack anymore? Is it because I got a little scratched up?"

"Stiles, you got a little more than scratched up," Scott responded.

"Does he know how many times I saved his ass? What's he going to do? Research stuff himself on that dinosaur of a computer?"

"He does know. Not that he would ever admit it, but I just think he's worried about you guys getting hurt."

"He's not my mom!" Stiles groused.

"I'm sure he knows that."

"I can't just let you go into this alone, Scott. Any of them – even Boyd, and you know how much Boyd scares me. Derek may not want me, or Allison, or Lydia in his pack – but we are. And I'm sure they said the same thing."

"They did, and you're making me say the same thing I said to them: I wouldn't be able to survive any of you getting hurt. None of us would."

"I'm sure some of you could," Stiles muttered. "He can't stop us, you know."

"What?"

"If we're not in his pack, he can't boss us around. Tell him that, why don't you!" Stiles said, throwing his arms apart dramatically.

"So what? You three are going to dress up in tights and go around fighting evil?"

"Maybe. I think I could pull off tights – listen, Scott, I'm serious. You're not going to keep me out of this. And you're crazy if you think you can keep Allison and Lydia out of it either. While I'm just research, one is a trained werewolf hunter and the other is a banshee."

"Please," Scott said. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"If Derek didn't want us in his life, or his loft, or his pack then he shouldn't have gotten _you dragged into it_. Derek is going to be seeing a lot more of me. You can count on that."


End file.
